Mummyfesto, The

by Green, Linda

  ‘Pretty good,’ said Sam. ‘Oscar saw the physio again today and she said he’s still maintaining the same range of movement as six months ago.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Jackie.

  I nodded, though I knew that it was simply a case of holding the deterioration off for as long as possible. The one thing that wasn’t in doubt was that he would never get better.

  ‘Right,’ said Sam, ‘we’d better get started. We’ve got loads to get through if we’re actually going to be ready for next week.’

  ‘I’ve booked Eureka for the launch,’ I said. ‘Though I’m still not sure it’s such a good idea.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Sam. ‘If we’re putting children and families at the heart of this then we need to show that right from the beginning. And what better place than a children’s museum?’

  ‘You’ll regret that when there’s a kid having a tantrum outside during the press conference,’ said Jackie.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s after closing time,’ I said.

  ‘And the good news is the Times has already confirmed they’ll be there,’ added Sam. She actually managed to keep a straight face for a second afterwards until Jackie elbowed her. ‘Well, OK,’ she said. ‘It’s the Hebden Bridge Times, but you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’

  We sat down at the table. Sam held up a wodge of A4 paper. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘I have here, drumroll please, the draft mummyfesto.’

  Jackie whooped and clapped.

  ‘Tell me it doesn’t read as ridiculously idealistic as I fear,’ I said.

  ‘It reads brilliantly,’ said Sam. ‘The words radical, reforming and revolutionary spring to mind.’

  ‘Don’t tell me this is going to be the Hebden Bridge spring,’ groaned Jackie.

  ‘Well, we’re not far from Bradford, maybe it’s heading our way.’

  ‘As long as Galloway isn’t heading our way with it,’ Jackie said, grimacing. ‘I still gag every time I see a cat lapping milk.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Sam. ‘Back to the mummyfesto. I’ll run through what’s in from all the Twitter suggestions. We’ve got OAP playgrounds in parks, term-time school hours working available to all, boarding schools to be banned for children under thirteen on the grounds that a child is for life not just for the cute toddler bits, we stop putting the clocks back in autumn on the grounds that children are more important than farmers, all school playgrounds to be covered with that spongy stuff they use under the swings in parks, in order to cut A & E bills, breast-feeding to be recognised with national awards screened live on TV and badges saying ‘I did my best so don’t give me dirty looks’ given to all mums who tried but have now stopped, and last, but by no means least, children’s party bags replaced with ‘thank you for coming and just be grateful you were invited’ stickers in order to teach them about the true meaning of friendship and to cut down the amount of plastic tat ending up in landfills.’

  Sam paused for breath and looked up. ‘All those in favour?’

  Jackie and I both raised our hands.

  ‘So what’s out, then?’ asked Jackie.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid we aren’t going to be calling for the monkey translator, as used to broadcast unspoken thoughts in Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, to be fitted to all men.’

  ‘Damn shame,’ said Jackie.

  ‘And heavily subsidising all sanitary products with the proceeds from a menstrual lottery which men will be too embarrassed to buy a ticket for – that didn’t make it either, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Another big loss, if you ask me,’ said Jackie.

  ‘But necessary if we want to look credible,’ I added. ‘I’m still concerned we’re a bit lightweight in some areas.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sam.

  ‘Well, “don’t start any wars” is hardly a comprehensive defence policy, is it?’

  ‘It would keep us out of trouble, though,’ said Jackie. ‘And save the country a hell of a lot of money.’

  ‘And what about the foreign policy?’ I asked. ‘Remind us what it says, Sam.’

  Sam flicked through the pages and read, ‘Apply the playground mantra for foreign affairs: play nicely with everyone and if someone isn’t playing nicely report them to the teacher and go and play with someone else.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s going to stand up to scrutiny?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t see why it has to be any more complicated than that,’ replied Sam. ‘It should be about getting on with everyone, and if we didn’t let religion and the male quest for world domination get in the way we’d all be a hell of a lot better off.’

  I smiled at her. She had a wonderful knack of being able to convince you that her somewhat simplistic way of looking at the world was actually the right one. And while I loved her to bits for it, I also knew that it lay us open to accusations from people like David that we were not a serious party.

  ‘OK. Well I still think we should concentrate on domestic policy, that’s clearly where our strength lies.’

  ‘Anything we should add to it?’ asked Sam.

  ‘I think it should be a living mummyfesto,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Sam.

  ‘We launch it with this next week, but it’s just a starting point. It keeps on growing throughout the election campaign as people suggest things to us. Essentially it’s like a tree and we can keep on adding branches and leaves to it as it grows.’

  ‘I love it,’ said Sam.

  ‘Me too,’ said Jackie. ‘For a Londoner, you can be very Hebden Bridge sometimes.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I said.

  ‘Right then,’ said Sam. ‘Let’s go through all the arrangements for the launch and make sure we’ve got all the admin stuff sorted out for the party. Everything properly registered and all forms completed and signed. And Anna can show us the fabby website.’

  ‘After that,’ said Jackie, ‘does anyone fancy going out for a skip?’

  13

  SAM

  ‘Were they all too poor to buy clothes, Daddy?’ asked Oscar. ‘Like the Africa children on the news.’

  I glanced at Rob, unable to suppress a smile. Trying to explain about his rather avant-garde approach to art clearly wasn’t going to be easy.

  ‘No, they’ve got clothes,’ said Rob, crouching down to Oscar’s level. ‘I just asked them to take them off before I painted them.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit rude?’ asked Zach.

  ‘Not if they were happy to do it, which they were,’ explained Rob. ‘They’d all volunteered, you see.’

  ‘Is there anyone we know?’ asked Oscar, manoeuvring his powerchair to get a closer look, as if he might recognise someone’s wrinkled left buttock.

  ‘No, love,’ I said. ‘Daddy didn’t know any of them.’

  ‘So they were all strangers who you asked to take their clothes off?’ asked Zach, who was clearly perturbed by the overfamiliarity of it all.

  ‘Yep,’ said Rob. ‘Sometimes if people don’t know you, they’re more natural when they’re sitting for you.’

  ‘He wasn’t sitting,’ said Oscar, pointing to one of the paintings. ‘He was standing up and you could see his willy.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Rob, scratching his head.

  ‘And that lady’s showing you her boobies,’ Oscar added for good measure.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, sensing that the conversation might be about to veer into even more awkward territory. ‘We’d better be getting back.’

  ‘I’ll be a little while yet,’ said Rob. ‘I’ve got some more sorting out to do here to get everything ready for later.’

  ‘You do remember I’ve got my hair appointment at two?’ I said.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yeah, I told you. You said you’d be OK looking after the boys.’

  ‘Did I? How long’s it going to take? Will you be done by half past?’

  ‘No. Sorry. It’s a proper cut.’ By that I meant I was going to the m
ost expensive hairdressers in town. You got a bloody good cut, but most of the time I couldn’t justify the expense. I’d agreed with Rob that I would go there once a year and have a couple of cheap rubbish haircuts elsewhere in between. It wasn’t that he’d said I couldn’t go to the expensive one any more than that, simply that I knew I would feel too guilty if I did.

  ‘OK, then,’ said Rob.

  I suspected it wasn’t OK, though. ‘It’s just that it’s too late to cancel it now,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask them to be as quick as they can.’ I didn’t want to mention the fact that I also wanted to make myself look half presentable before the Lollipop Party launch. It was bad enough thinking it, let alone saying it out loud.

  ‘Right,’ said Rob. ‘But I’ll need to come back here directly afterwards.’

  ‘I know. That’s fine.’ It wasn’t really fine. I had stacks of work to do on the launch, and work from the hospice that I’d ended up bringing home with me.

  ‘OK then, you two,’ said Rob, looking at the boys. ‘What do you fancy doing for an hour or so?’

  ‘Cinema,’ Oscar shrieked.

  ‘The pirates’ film is on,’ said Zach. ‘I saw it on the board when we came past.’ Rob looked at me. I knew exactly what he was thinking. We couldn’t afford it. And it was going to last longer than an hour.

  ‘Take them,’ I said, knowing I would disappear under a tidal wave of guilt if I said no. ‘I’ll come straight to the cinema when I’m done. We’ll ask if they’ll let me take over your ticket when you go.’

  Rob looked at me doubtfully. I tried to think of the last time we had been to the cinema together, all four of us. I couldn’t actually think of one. Having said that I couldn’t think of the last time Rob and I had been to the cinema alone – or anywhere else for that matter. I delved into my bag and managed to find a couple of chewy bars and packets of raisins amongst the debris.

  ‘Save having to buy popcorn,’ I whispered as I handed them to Rob.

  I sat in the hairdressers looking at my watch every five minutes and feeling guilty about how much this was costing when we were denying the boys popcorn. I actually put one pound a week from my wages away for it in a special pot at home, like I was some kid saving for something special that I’d been gazing at longingly in a shop window.

  ‘OK, so it’s looking a bit wild,’ said the hairdresser, running her fingers through my mass of thick red curls as she smiled out from under her immaculate bob.

  ‘I know, good haircuts come but once a year and all that.’

  ‘What would you like me to do with it?’

  ‘Just a really good cut, something that will last. Quite a bit shorter. I’m in danger of starting to look like Rebekah Brooks.’ She smiled and led me over to the washbasins.

  I edged my way down the cinema aisle in the dark, my eyes still trying to adjust from the bright sunlight outside. I could just make out Oscar’s powerchair at the end of the aisle in the front row.

  ‘I’m here,’ I whispered, tapping Rob on the shoulder. ‘They’ve said it’s OK to swap.’ He nodded, rummaged around on the floor for his bag, said goodbye to Oscar and Zach, and crept out down the aisle. I sunk quickly into the still-warm seat, trying not to think about how ridiculous it was that this was as close as I seemed to get to Rob at the moment.

  Zach immediately took hold of my hand and snuggled into me. Oscar was far too busy staring at the screen even to notice my arrival. The film pretty much washed over me. I had far too much to think about to be able to concentrate properly. I was vaguely aware of Hugh Grant’s voice, and I did have to try to explain at one point who Charles Darwin was, but I couldn’t have told you much about the plot except that it involved a dodo.

  We headed out of the fire-exit doors and down the side alleyway, meeting the rest of the audience as they came down the steps at the front.

  ‘When I grow up,’ said Zach, ‘I want to be like Charles Darwin, discovering things about the world.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘You’d make a great discoverer.’

  ‘When I grow up,’ said Oscar, ‘I want to be a pirate. Can I be a pirate, Mummy? Do they have pirates in wheelchairs?’

  I looked down at him, his normal exuberance dented for a moment by the doubts.

  ‘Of course they do,’ I said. ‘You can be anything you like.’

  My parents arrived shortly before teatime. Actually it was shortly before the time I’d told them we would be having tea. In truth I’d not even made a start on anything food-related, having been waylaid by the need – and Oscar insisted it was a need – to build a pirate ship out of recycling containers and vegetable crates in the backyard.

  ‘Grandma and Grandad ahoy!’ shouted Oscar, looking through the rolled-up newspaper telescope I’d made him. It still felt weird hearing them described as such, even almost eight years on. I suspected they felt the same; they hadn’t even been keen on being called Mum and Dad, encouraging me to call them by their first names once I’d reached my teenage years. I’d never really taken to it though, and had reverted to Mum and Dad by the time I’d hit my twenties. It was weird enough when Rob called them Julian and Carole now. And I’d been adamant that my own children weren’t going to follow suit.

  Zach put down his treasure chest and ran over to greet them, throwing himself against my mum’s legs.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous boy,’ she said, bending down to give him a hug. ‘What’s this you’ve built?’

  ‘It’s a pirate ship,’ shouted Oscar in a voice which suggested he couldn’t believe she hadn’t worked it out for herself.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, letting Zach lead her up for a closer look and to give Oscar a kiss.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I said, walking over to give him a hug. He was in his sixties now, but it didn’t seem like it. Which was just as well, as otherwise Rob would have thought to ask him to sit for him for his nude-pensioner thing. And I had a horrible feeling Dad would have said yes.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said, brushing his unruly mass of grey hair back from his face. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Oh, mad as ever, you know.’

  He nodded. ‘When’s your launch?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Bloody great timing,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t get a country more disillusioned with politics than we are right now.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘That’s what’s so scary. It feels like quite a responsibility.’

  ‘You’ll do a great job,’ he said. ‘You’re standing up for what you believe in. That’s what’ll set you apart.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smiled at him, knowing I was lucky to have such supportive parents. Last I’d known, Anna hadn’t even told hers yet.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ called out Oscar. ‘What’s for tea?’

  ‘Pirate stew, if you carry on being that cheeky,’ I replied.

  ‘Why don’t I go in and give Mummy a hand?’ suggested Mum. ‘I’m sure you can find someone else to walk the plank.’

  ‘Grandad,’ shouted Oscar, ‘come and be fed to the crocodiles.’

  ‘He seems on good form,’ said Mum, as we made our way into the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah, as ever. I swear he runs on Duracell batteries sometimes.’

  ‘Only Zach’s the one with the copper-coloured top,’ she said.

  I smiled and started rooting around in the kitchen cupboard for the big lasagne dish. Mum put the washing-up gloves on and ran water into the bowl. She was good like that. Just got on and did stuff without being asked.

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Well, crazy fine – you know how it is.’ She nodded slowly as she scrubbed one of the pans.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not taking too much on with this election thing?’

  ‘You sound like Rob.’

  ‘We care about you, that’s all. And I guess we both know that you’re already flat-out, just with work and the boys.’

  ‘I need to do it,’ I said. ‘Someone’s got to stand up for what’s right.�
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  ‘But why should it be you?’

  ‘Said the woman who singlehandedly keeps Amnesty, Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth going.’

  Mum turned to smile at me and put the pan she was washing back in the bowl.

  ‘Unlike you,’ she said, ‘I don’t have a job and two young children, one of whom needs an extraordinary amount of care.’

  ‘I’ll make sure Oscar doesn’t suffer because of this.’

  ‘I know you will, love. But in doing that you’re going to put even more strain on yourself.’

  ‘I’m OK. I can deal with it. It’s not a problem.’ The lasagne dish slipped through my hands and fell onto the quarry tiles. It smashed clean in half. I burst into tears. Big, proper tears. Mum took the washing-up gloves off and wrapped her arms around me. And for just a minute I wished I was a kid again. Wished she could make it all go away. That I had nothing more to worry about than a grazed knee.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Let it all out. It needs to come out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I sniffed. ‘Most of the time I’m OK and then some stupid little thing happens and …’ my voice trailed off.

  ‘You cope with so much,’ said Mum, stroking my hair. ‘And all the time you’ve got this smile on your face and I know there must be times when you don’t feel like smiling.’

  ‘Sometimes I want to shout and scream at people, “You don’t know what it’s like to have a child with SMA.” Only I don’t because it would be rude. And because I’m glad they don’t know what it’s like. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’

  ‘You need to talk to someone, love.’

  ‘Who? I can’t talk to the staff at the hospice because they’re dealing with children who are far sicker than Oscar. Children who might not even see the week out. And it’s stupid because the one person I could talk to, who knows exactly what it’s like is Rob, only he doesn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Have you tried telling him how you feel?’

  ‘I can’t. He’s got his own way of coping with it which is to stick his head in the sand and pretend there’s nothing wrong with Oscar. That he really is just like any other kid. And if I tell him how I feel that will remind him that Oscar’s not like any other kid and I’m not sure he’s strong enough to cope with that.’